Hair, There, and Everywhere

I used to have long hair. Very, very long hair. And it drove me crazy.

It would get so snarled and knotty, I’d have to use No More Tangles. I’d throw tantrums like a big baby.

It’d get stuck behind my back when I was driving or sleeping.

My mom hated it, too. So much so that after I graduated college, she offered me moolah to cut it. Sure, she prob didn’t think I’d take her up on the offer. But I was pretty over the mane anyway.

Snip snip went the pony (donated to Locks of Love!) and in flowed the cash.

My hair has been mid-length middling since then. But a year and a half ago, I chin-chopped it. This short new ‘do is even easier to maintain! Washing isn’t ever a chore. Brushing is never a battle. Hell, I don’t even mind blow drying. It takes no time at all!

But there always seems to be a but. A not-so-bright side. An annoying wonkiness - grrr! - that comes when one mistakenly thinks themselves immune. Home free. Up the creek with a paddle.

I erroneously believed my bad hair (as in “BAD DOG!”) days were over.

Apparently this was über naïve (umlauts for everyone!) and downright dumb. Apparently just because my locks are shorter don’t mean they’re less apt to fall out! Sneaks! Shits! Scheisters!

We lose, on average, about one hundred hairs each day. That is disgusting. But what’s more disgusting is their omnipresence. Their pervasiveness. Their peevish prevalence.

W.

T. 


F.

I can’t tell you how many times each week a hair bunny appears on my gleaming (hah!) black kitchen tiles and wooden floors. It’s like a secret congregation of hair happens while I am sleeping and voilà, they’re all chilling together out in the open come a.m.

It gives me the willies when a fallen tress finds its way under my dress. Eek! And I hate hate hate picking locks out of my brushes (no that is not my brush below). Ew, and it’s G-ross to wipe up straggling hairs from the tub drain or bathroom sink. Omg and don’t even get me started on sheets (especially stubby boy hairs on sheets!) and clothes.
I can’t even describe the spectrum of embarrassment I experience if someone has to pick a hair off my back. (But to those of you who have, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are true friends and I will never forgot the service you have rendered.)

Ugh, and when a stray hair finds its way into my mouth, I die. I just die. Wait, spoke too soon. When a stray hair finds its wait into my mouth because it was in my food - then I truly die. That is so so so disgusting. Omg omg omg. Noooooooo daaaaaaankesssss.

I like my hair. I like that it’s straight and blonde and relatively thick. In fact, I feel quite lucky to be the possessor of such locks. But why do hairs have to be so creepy and ubiquitous? Why can’t they just stay put on your HEAD? Why must they find their way into every single space, crevice, orifice, drawer, floorboard. You can’t escape them.

No matter what you do, your hair is always there, waiting. Laughing at you like a weaselly little jerk, just waiting to drop from your scalp, dance down your arm, and scare the shit out of you.

I hate you hair.

(But, unfortunately, that doesn’t mean I want you to go anywhere.)